How To Tell A Playwright You Didn't Like His Play

I have a new play that
starts in previews this week. That means I have a lot of
friends, colleagues and acquaintances who are going to have to
negotiate the tricky thing of what to say to me after my play if
they happen not to like it.

Let me be clear: I’m totally fine with being lied to. I don’t
long to be told what everyone I know truly thought of my play. But
in my experience, many of them long to tell me. They may not be
conscious of this, but that’s why God invented the unconscious.
Deep down, most people really do want to tell me what they thought
of my work, one way or another.

Over the years I’ve spoken to enough playwrights to gather that
my experience is not unique. Therefore, I’ve prepared a little
guide to help you navigate your way through the post-show
interaction.

But first, there are people you don’t want to be after
seeing your friend’s play.

The Projector
A good friend of mine was coming to see my play Dying City
and we planned to see each other afterwards. I used the opportunity
to check in on the show, which had been running a while.

I greeted my friend post-show with a big hug, and we expressed
pleasure at seeing each other for the first time in ages. Then came
the obvious next moment—the moment when someone says something nice
about the play they just saw. Only he didn’t say anything—just
smiled at me dumbly. Okay, a bit weird, I thought—but maybe he’s
waiting to talk about it. So off we went to a nearby watering hole.
And in a lull in the small talk my friend turned to me and said:
“So what did you think of tonight?”

It takes great skill to use a question about what someone else
thought to convey unmistakably what you yourself thought. Only the
biggest assholes have this skill.

The Condenser
A colleague and someone I genuinely looked up to waited around the
auditorium after one of my early plays, and when I saw him there I
scurried over to say hello, eager to hear what he thought. He loved
the play, it was remarkable, so moving, so interesting, I was such
a wonderful writer… but there was a hesitation in his voice. What
was it?

“One thing I didn’t like was the haircut,” he said
cryptically.

“The haircut?”

“Of the main character. It should be spikier. It should look
more like the hair that people his age have, when I walk around NYU
and see these young people.”

“Ah.”

That wasn’t all. My colleague proceeded to talk about what was
wrong with the lead character’s haircut for a solid three
minutes—five times longer than he took when praising me. In fact,
the actor’s haircut was entirely unremarkable. No one else who saw
the play ever brought it up; no critic mentioned it. And so I as I
sat there in the cold, empty theatre, listening to my colleague
drone on and on about it, it became clear that the haircut was
actually my play.

The Generalizer
A mentor gives me a big hug at the end of my first New York
production.

“I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“Oh—thank you.”

“It’s so clearly your voice.”

“Thanks!”

“You really just wrote something that you wanted to write.”

“Yes…”

That is the generalizer. Ultimately you are left standing in an
uncomfortable silence, when you can no longer deny that nothing
that is being said to you can unequivocally be understood as
praise.

The Magician
The magician disappears at the end of your play. You wait and look
for him to no avail. Six months later, when he finally calls or
emails to get together, no mention is made of the show. He’s made
the play disappear!

The Globalizer
This is the worst of all because the most unexpected. The
globalizer—a frequent theatergoer, perhaps a onetime
practitioner—gives you a huge hug at the end of your play. He tells
you how brilliant it was, how moving, how incredibly brave… you go
out into the night feeling warm, protected—even loved.

Then around the second or third drink this happens:

“The problem with the theatre today is that these theatres
refuse to take risks.”

Okay. Fair enough. Quite frequently true…

“When’s the last time a major theatre did a truly risky
play?”

Yes. Well. You did just see mine…

“They’re terrified of anything authentic. As are critics. If
critics like something universally, you know it’s not good.”

Right. Well. My play got pretty good reviews…

“At the end of the day, the theatre is dead.”

Note to fellow playwrights: Never give these people a second
chance. They will just keep doing this. Trust me.

Now. If you truly, truly must convey to a playwright that
you did not like their play, I have sketched out a few respectful
ways to do so. Really—it can be done. And I’m sympathetic. People
should not have to go through their entire lives lying about liking
bad plays. There has to be a better way. Well, I don’t know if
there has to be, but if you really can’t control
yourself, be one of these people:

The Diplomat
At the moment of maximum vulnerability after the show, you are
polite and kind. On the way to the bar you ask friendly questions
about the experience of doing the play. By the end of the first
round of drinks, now that you have established that you are
basically a caring and compassionate person, you test the waters
with a tentative criticism. Something that starts like “I wasn’t
sure about…”

You say it in a way that the playwright can choose to pursue or
deflect. You note the playwright’s response and direct subsequent
comments according to how much he or she has invited further
criticism.

The Anti-Narcissist
The narcissist believes his opinions are objective truths. He is
afraid of speaking them only because he is afraid that his godlike
judgment will irrevocably impact the recipient. And, when the
narcissist speaks from on high it often does have this effect—the
assumption of absolute authority reawakening one’s lonely, scared
inner child.

But the anti-narcissist knows his actual size in relation to
others. He knows his opinion is just one person’s point of view, no
more or less valid than anyone else’s. And when he speaks, he
effortlessly conveys that. When the anti-narcissist says he doesn’t
like the play, it almost feels like an act of love. He says in a
gentle voice something like, “I’m not sure I always understood what
you were trying to say, but I’ll keep thinking about it.” The
anti-narcissist knows what he felt but is also suspicious of his
own reaction. With him, the playwright experiences a world of
compassionate others who are tolerant and accepting even when
critical.

The Pal
Which brings me back to where I started. At the end of the day, we
all know the truth. We know what it feels like and sounds like. It
isn’t something that can be faked. If you didn’t like my play, I’ll
know it. And you’ll know I know it. So why not just be a pal? At
the end of the show, wrap your arms around me and congratulate me.
I’ll know what you really felt. And I’ll be thankful that my
friends like and respect me even when they don’t like my work.